The Second Mrs Thistlewood

by Dionne Haynes

  Arthur glances up from his newspaper. ‘When will the shoes be ready? My wife urgently needs them, as you can see.’

  My cheeks flush.

  ‘Average waiting time is three weeks but if you’re willing to pay a small additional fee, we can have them ready by the end of this week.’

  ‘We’ll do that. I’ll settle the account today as I won’t be available to accompany my wife when she returns to collect them.’

  The measuring finished, the junior assistant eases my feet back into my boots. I can’t help but wonder what the young man is thinking as he ties the frayed ribbons. I lower my head to watch and stifle a giggle of surprise. The assistant grins. He has replaced my old ribbons with new ones.

  It has been a tiring day. My leg muscles ache, my eyelids are heavy, but soon I’ll have four extra dresses and a brand-new pair of shoes. Arthur has been generous, his behaviour reminiscent of before we married. I wonder why. The purchases for Julian need no explaining – the school administrator sent a lengthy list of items that Julian requires. But why buy clothes for me when we are cautious with every shilling of our expenditure? Arthur would not countenance laying out such sums on dresses if he could not match them pound for a pound to support his good cause. There can be only one explanation. He is gambling again.

  I sit in front of the mirror and pull a brush through my hair, studying my reflection, wondering if I see what Arthur sees when he looks at me. The candlelight is sympathetic and softens thin creases at the corners of my eyes. Arthur is forty-one years old. I am thirty-four.

  My thoughts drift to Arthur’s first wife, Jane. She died in childbirth, the baby dying with her, not two full years before Arthur married me. Childbirth. I place my hairbrush on the table. When did I last bleed? Before or after the Corn Bill riots? Before, I think. I count the weeks on my fingers, then again to check.

  I am two weeks overdue.

  Chapter 6

  I fancy an orange. Concerned that I’ve been off my food and have lost a little weight, Arthur strides away in search of a street vendor.

  The roads and parks are busy today, the first day of summer, with many families enjoying a few hours of fresh air and festivities. I exchange pleasantries with a young mother standing beside me. Her exuberant son is testing her patience, and she restrains him by his collar while we wait for the parade. Arthur returns with two oranges. He pulls a knife from his pocket and slices one into four. I take a quarter and bite into it. The sweet juice trickles down my chin. I draw a scrap of linen from my reticule and wipe away the wasted drops. Between us, we devour the oranges. Arthur teases me, laughing at the dribbles. I wish I was with anyone else but him.

  ‘You look charming today,’ he whispers.

  I stiffen. There was a time when I tried my best to appeal to him, dressing carefully before my uncle’s dinner parties, then delighting in Arthur’s company while focusing on every one of his words. Renowned for generous donations to help the poor of Horncastle, Arthur was a widower and an excellent marriage prospect, desired by most of the single women in the town. Not any more. The London crowd changed him. So did losing his fortune. As funds dwindled, his violence escalated, the losses at gaming tables fuelling his rage. Before we wed, he confided tales of beatings by his father and expressed abhorrence of all such men. I pitied him. Believed him. Promised to cherish him. Now I’m trapped and bound to the man Arthur vowed he would never become.

  His hand rests on my shoulder. The heat from his palm burns through the fabric of my new dress. He moves his fingers to the nape of my neck, then moves them up and down with gentle strokes. I hold my breath, sensing him lean closer. He sighs. I stare ahead, determined to do nothing to inflame his desire. Arthur will want his way with me later and I’m already dreading it.

  ‘Here they come,’ chortles the little boy, bouncing on his toes, straining against his mother’s grasp. ‘The sweeps and the Jack-in-the-Green.’

  I hear them before I see them. A racket of flutes, fiddles, horns and drums creating a vibrant, cheery atmosphere. We watch the boisterous procession approach from beyond the curve in Regent Street. At the front of the group are two young chimney sweeps dressed in flamboyant costumes. Faces blackened, and wearing shrubbery crowns, they march along the street bashing brushes against shovels. They are followed by an extraordinary vison of an enormous tree, bedecked in flowers and ribbons, with two feet protruding from beneath and staggering from side to side. Men dressed as jesters, similarly unbalanced, try to steer the drunken tree by shoving one side, then the other. Next come a gaggle of jaunty dairymaids in summer dresses adorned with flowers, then a mix of men and women in fancy dress and members of the crowd who have joined the procession. The noise crescendoes as the joyful group passes with bawdy singing, cheers from onlookers and jumbled notes blaring from the haphazard orchestra. They pause before us and dance a merry jig, holding out hats for donations before continuing on their way. One cannot help but smile amid such revelry.

  Arthur squeezes my elbow. ‘I have a special treat in mind. It’s a walk that will take almost an hour, but I’m confident you’ll think it worth the effort.’

  I nod and allow him to lead me away, avoiding the gutters where foul detritus bakes in the sunshine. I press my reticule to my chest to protect it from pickpockets and we dodge carriages and crowds. Emerging onto the Strand, we continue along its length until we pause outside the Golden Lyon, purveyor of fine teas. The shop has a handsome entrance with a statue of a gold lion above the doorway and a Chinaman seated on either side. The statues are magnificent, detailed and lifelike.

  ‘Marvellous, aren’t they?’ I say, turning towards Arthur. ‘The lion glows in the sunlight. Thank you for bringing me here.’

  Arthur cocks his head. ‘You think I brought you here to see the entrance to a tea shop?’

  ‘Yes.’ I force a smile.

  Arthur laughs. ‘Only a cruel husband would walk his wife so far to show her a shop doorway. We’re here to buy tea.’

  I frown. ‘But Arthur, what about the funds for your campaign? Have we not spent too much on clothes and shoes, leaving less for your cause?’

  Arthur shakes his head. ‘I came into a sum of money. I’ve set aside a decent sum to pursue the ideals we covet, but should not every man and woman be permitted to drink tea? Please, Susan, step inside and take your time to pick something we will both enjoy.’

  The shop is a treasure trove with countless teas displayed on shelves. I struggle to make my choice. At last, I select a blend of Oolong, my decision swayed by the light floral fragrance of the rolled leaves and the thrill of never having tried it. Arthur is as delighted with the purchase as I am. We climb into a hackney carriage and head for home, both eager to sample the tea.

  I pour the pale amber brew into a cup and pass it to Arthur. When he nods his approval of the taste, I settle into my chair with a cup of my own and we sit in silence, enjoying the refreshment.

  Satisfied Arthur is still in an agreeable mood, I replace my cup on the tray and clear my throat. ‘I have news to share.’

  ‘Oh?’ Arthur drains his cup and gestures that I should pour him another.

  ‘I’m with child,’ I say, scrutinising his face for a reaction.

  Arthur says nothing. I swallow.

  ‘Are you not pleased?’

  Arthur frowns. ‘Will it be like last time?’

  I’m unsure to which last time he refers. The sad demise of his first wife or the loss I endured only five months ago? Either way, I hope for a wonderful outcome this time.

  ‘I pray God will bless us with a healthy child, another son to continue your name.’

  ‘We don’t need another boy when we have Julian.’ He scowls. ‘And I’ve no estate to leave to an heir.’

  My mood drops, and my heart rate quickens. ‘But I’m not Julian’s natural mother.’

  ‘Yet you’re fond of the boy?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then why crave another?’

  I place my hand
across my belly. I did not crave this baby, but I feel protective towards it. The pregnancy has made my future more uncertain, and already I fear for the safety of the child. Arthur must remain ignorant of my fears. ‘I believe it’s a gift from God, Arthur. A blessing on our union and a wonderful thing.’

  A lengthy silence. He smiles. ‘It is.’

  I let out a slow steady breath, relieved he appears accepting of the news.

  Arthur reaches into his jacket and withdraws a battered silver snuffbox. He places a small pinch on the back of his hand, holds it to a nostril and takes a quick sniff. He closes his eyes and grins as if congratulating himself on a job well done.

  When night falls, Arthur proposes we retire to bed early. He undresses me while I close my eyes and distract myself by thinking about the Jack-in-the-Green parade, the tea-shopping excursion and the child in my belly.

  I lie on the bed and brace myself for Arthur’s attention. His lips brush against the corner of my mouth and his body joins with mine.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispers.

  But when he finds his pleasure minutes later, it’s not my name he cries, but Jane’s.

  Chapter 7

  The smell of cheese turns my stomach, but I persevere with preparing a plate for Arthur. He’s due at a meeting within the hour and will not be home for dinner or supper. If I don’t persuade Arthur to eat something now, he’ll become distracted later and forego any opportunity to dine. An unfed Arthur is a volatile Arthur and not a man I wish to share a bed with.

  I put the plate on the dinner table. Arthur glances up from his newspaper and grunts. He hands the paper to me and I take care to fold it with sharp creases before taking it to the parlour ready for when he returns home. When I walk back into the kitchen, he points to the chair at the opposite end of the table.

  ‘Sit. I have something to tell you.’

  His tone is unnerving. My hand flies to my belly to reassure my unborn child that all will be well.

  Arthur scoops a spoonful of pickle and loads it on to a chunk of cheese before cramming the ensemble into his mouth. ‘I have a surprise,’ he says between mouthfuls. ‘An opportunity has arisen, and I’ve taken it.’

  I tense. ‘Are we to move away from London?’

  A flicker of confusion passes across Arthur’s face. ‘Move? Goodness, no! My work here is important, I can’t leave. We’re making headway with plans for a better England.’ He drops his knife on to the plate and the harsh clatter sets my nerves on edge. The muscles in Arthur’s face relax and he smiles. ‘I’ve engaged a maid.’

  ‘A maid?’ I should show my delight but instead I say, ‘Can we afford a maid?’

  Arthur jumps to his feet, sending his chair reeling backwards, clattering against the flagstones. He pummels the table top with his fists and tiny beads of blood ooze through the skin of his knuckles. I bite my bottom lip.

  Arthur glares, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, like a bull preparing to charge. ‘You ungrateful goose,’ he hisses, saliva spraying from his lips. ‘I thought you’d be glad of help while in your condition.’ He waves his hand dismissively, then retrieves the chair from the floor, slamming it into position with one hand.

  ‘I am grateful! The news was a surprise, and a generous thought, Arthur, thank you. But won’t a maid’s wages deplete funds for your work with the Spenceans? And is it appropriate while you fight for those less fortunate than ourselves?’

  Arthur has violet shadows under his eyes and his skin is sallow. He sits again and cups his face in his hands. After an uncomfortable silence, he looks at me. ‘I respect your concern, Susan, but while we fight on behalf of other people, we must also take care of ourselves. We shouldn’t feel guilty about our own circumstances as long as we remember the plight of others and do what we can to improve their lot. The child in your belly is mine and I won’t risk losing it by having you do too much around the home. The maid will take over all heavy housework and anything else you instruct her to do. You’ll have free time to enjoy activities befitting of a gentlewoman, but do nothing to compromise your health or that of my unborn son.’

  ‘It might be a girl,’ I say tentatively.

  Arthur shakes his head. ‘A son is preferable.’

  How I would love a daughter! A little girl to dress in coloured ribbons, a companion to shop with when she’s older. Now, I hope the child will be a lusty boy.

  ‘When will the maid arrive?’

  ‘Today.’ Arthur pulls out his pocket watch to check the time. ‘Soon, I hope. I must be on my way. I’ve engaged the maid for twelve months. We’ll review the need for paid help when her contract expires.’ He rises from his chair once more and strides to my side. He grasps my hand and plants a firm kiss on my fingers. ‘I’m fond of you, Susan. You know that, don’t you?’

  If only that were true.

  ‘I do.’

  The knock is so gentle that I almost miss it.

  ‘Good day, Mrs Thistlewood. I’m Nancy Loveday. I believe you’re expecting me.’

  A woman of nineteen or twenty years stands on the doorstep with a large bundle of clothes in her arms. I look her up and down. She’s neatly presented in a plain dress and hair tucked under a cap. Her face is speckled with pockmarks and her eyes are as grey as rain clouds, but she has a sunny smile and I warm to her.

  ‘Please, come in, Nancy.’

  As she steps over the threshold, her eyes flit from side to side, but her expression remains unchanged. She is neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed and I presume she has come from a similar household to ours. If not, she is skilled at hiding her reactions.

  ‘Let me take you to your room so you may settle in. I’ve cleaned the garret for you. The mattress is old but comfortable.’

  Nancy’s eyes widen. ‘I would’ve cleaned the room meself, Mrs Thistlewood.’

  This is my first experience of a maid and I’m uncomfortable with the formality. I’d prefer something more at ease. Not a friendship, but a companionship of sorts. ‘Call me Susan whenever we’re alone.’

  ‘Very well, Susan,’ says Nancy, grinning.

  I return her smile and lead her up the stairs, wondering if Arthur will be less violent now another adult lives in the house.

  We have new neighbours. While Nancy scrubbed floors, I washed windows so I could watch the goings-on next door. It has taken most of the afternoon and much of the evening to deliver their belongings with furniture arriving by many cartloads. They must have purchased the property outright and are filling it with their own possessions.

  While making a show of buffing glass, I make eye contact with a middle-aged woman whom I presume to be the lady of the house. She adjusts her bonnet then waves at me. Embarrassed to be caught gawking, I wave back then withdraw from the window. My cheeks are aflame. What must she think of me?

  Nancy barrels into the parlour. ‘Did you see them, Susan? All those chairs? At least two dozen.’

  So Nancy was watching too. I should chastise her for spying, but I’m guilty of the same crime.

  ‘Come, Nancy. The light is fading. Let’s have supper.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to call on your neighbours and welcome them to the street?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You should. Me last mistress said it was important to welcome new neighbours. You never know what they might do for you or when you might need to call upon them for help. That’s what she said, anyway.’

  I’d like to make myself known to the lady in the bonnet and it’s a chance to widen my social circle. London is far more enjoyable shared, and Julian’s absence has left a hole that needs filling.

  ‘Take something as a gift,’ enthuses Nancy. ‘I could make gingerbread.’

  I’m swept along by her eagerness. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. It would be inappropriate to knock at their door at this hour. It’s getting dark.’

  Nancy chuckles. ‘I’ll brew us a pot of tea instead then.’

  I stay at the table and allow her to wait on me. So far, I’m enjoying
having a maid.

  Chapter 8

  Mrs Rebecca Wilkinson’s kitchen maid has baked scrumptious biscuits. Dry, they make a tantalising crunch against my teeth, but dipped in tea they soften and melt on my tongue, releasing a warm spicy after-note. It’s odd to eat biscuits this way and such a contrast to dipping them in wine as part of a dessert course. But Mrs Wilkinson prefers them like this. When asked how the unusual practice started, she laughed and said it was an accident. One morning, her kitchen maid produced a batch of delicious-smelling biscuits. Eager to taste one, and with no wine to hand, Mrs Wilkinson dipped a biscuit in tea despite risking fearful indigestion. The flavour and texture were so delightful that she’s been having biscuits with tea every morning since that day.

  Beckey, as she likes to be known, has been my neighbour for three weeks. Her husband is a physician and seems to be rather successful. I suspect he serves a wealthy clientele because Beckey hinted at this being a larger house than their last home; and her furniture is of excellent quality. I confess I’m relieved to have a physician as a neighbour, but I hope we’ll not need to call upon him in his professional capacity.

  ‘Susan, I’m hosting a musical gathering tomorrow. Do you play an instrument?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I had a few lessons for the harpsichord but didn’t practise. I preferred reading.’

  ‘But you enjoy listening to music?’

  I take a sip of tea before answering. ‘Yes, but I’ve had few opportunities in recent years.’

  ‘Then join us tomorrow,’ she says, clasping my hands. ‘Many of my friends are talented musicians. You’ll recognise a tune or two, and if you know the words, sing along.’

  Shyness creeps up on me. My brothers used to tease me for my flat tones when singing hymns in church. ‘I don’t know.’

  Beckey refills my teacup. ‘I insist you come, if only to listen. This will be my first soirée in this house and I’m eager for the other ladies to meet my new dear friend and neighbour.’