The Second Mrs Thistlewood

by Dionne Haynes

  I hold the wide end of a shell against my lips and take a sip of oyster liquor, relishing the mild briny flavour of the sea before tipping in the oyster itself. As I bite into it, the taste of the ocean gives way to a subtle sweetness with a delicate mineral finish. It’s not unusual to eat oysters, but to eat them fresh from the sea is to enjoy them at their best.

  Our appetites sated, we order tea to warm ourselves before the journey home. It’s the first time I’ve visited Billingsgate – these days I rely on Nancy to source our provisions. But Beckey invited me to accompany her this morning. She likes to visit the market now and then, and I confess she might persuade me to join her again because the market is a feast for the eyes! Rows of stalls stretch into the distance with traders calling out to customers and drawing attention to the fish displayed before them. Crowds of merchants and members of the public scrutinise the goods on offer, picking fault and haggling over prices. Hawkers rub shoulders with customers and elbow their way through the packed marketplace, offering shellfish, knives and loaves, and trinkets crafted from discarded shells. My favourite section is a jumble of permanent shops selling tableware and leather goods in a less raucous area, flanking a steep slope towards the fast-flowing Thames.

  The door to the inn flies open, admitting a blast of arctic chill.

  ‘We should leave,’ says Beckey. ‘The weather’s turning.’

  It’s been a bleak winter so far, although not cold enough for the annual frost fair on the Thames. The mornings are so dry and chilly that speech lingers in little mists. But before a waiter slams the door to seal the warmth indoors, I glimpse little white flecks dancing in the air. We drain our cups, then wrap ourselves in scarves, wool coats and thick hooded capes. Bracing ourselves for the icy chill, we clutch our purchases in mittened hands.

  The sky is heavy with snow.

  ‘This will get worse,’ I say.

  Beckey’s face drops. ‘We’d better find a cab before everyone else has the same idea.’

  We retrace our steps through the market. The crowds have dissipated and traders are packing up their stalls. Discarded fish guts litter the cobbles, the slippery surface making our path treacherous. When we emerge from the opposite side, we see a hackney carriage offloading passengers. The coachman is eager for us to board, declaring us his last job for the day even though it is not yet mid-morning. We raise our eyebrows at his laziness and settle on a shabby seat.

  As we clatter through the city, our view through the windows diminishes. Smog hangs in a low cloud, the by-product of thousands of home fires burning in grates from morning until night. Snow falls in thick clumps, further obscuring the view, and the wind strengthens, blowing gusty draughts through gaps in the carriage doors.

  ‘The carriage is slowing,’ observes Beckey, slipping her arm through mine and snuggling against me so we may share the heat from our well-clad bodies.

  ‘Listen,’ I say.

  Beckey cocks her head to one side. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘That’s my point. Not even hoofbeats on cobbles.’

  The carriage rolls to a stop. The coachman opens the door on my side and we both gasp. He’s covered in a thick layer of snow.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asks Beckey.

  ‘Sorry, ladies. Can’t go no further.’ He shivers. ‘It’s been snowing ’ard for some time now.’

  A gust of wind tips him forward. He steadies himself, each hand clutching the side of the doorframe. Snow slides from the roof, coating him in another layer, while large clods fall inside the carriage and land in a pile at my feet.

  When the wind drops, he steps aside. ‘Ladies.’ He holds out his hand and helps me step down before doing the same for Beckey. Then he reaches for our parcels and retrieves them from his seat. ‘These’ll still be as fresh as when you bought them, ’specially in this chilly air.’

  We take the parcels from him and watch him trudge away, leading the horse by the reins.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ Beckey’s eyes are wide, her teeth clenched.

  ‘I suppose we walk.’

  I study our surroundings, trying to recognise landmarks smothered by snow. The dome of St Paul’s Cathedral looms through the murk. White lumps tumble from the sky, clinging to our capes and melting on my boots, the icy water spreading too easily through the fabric.

  ‘This way,’ I say.

  We press forward, our boots crunching in unison. The wind is more persistent now, blowing us to the side, forcing us through thick drifts. Each laborious step carries us closer to our homes. A few other stragglers pass us, but we exchange no words of greeting because it takes all our concentration to keep moving, dragging our feet one slow step at a time. My toes are numb and my fingers hurt. I need thicker mittens. We pause in a shop doorway to recover our breath, disappointed the shopkeeper chose not to open today. Our rest is brief. It’s too cold to linger. We need to get home.

  Nancy flings open the door. ‘Master, come quickly,’ she yells.

  I heave myself over the threshold, warm air wrapping around me like a soft woollen blanket. My chest aches, and I can’t feel my toes. Nancy relieves me of my packages. I mutter my thanks and shrug off my cape, creating a puddle of snow.

  ‘Susan?’ Arthur hurries along the hallway towards me. I watch his approach, but his image fades as he draws closer. Everything is silent around me, and my vision greys. Then I buckle and drop towards the floor. When I come to, I am in Arthur’s arms being carried up the stairs like a child. He huffs and puffs, struggling with my weight, then drops me awkwardly on to the bed.

  ‘I’ll send Nancy to help you change into dry clothes.’ Each word freezes for a second, then vanishes.

  ‘Perhaps she can light the fire, too?’

  Arthur makes a show of removing his pocket watch and checking the time. He shakes his head. ‘It’s not yet midday.’

  ‘I fainted, Arthur. I need to rest awhile, and it’s freezing in here.’

  Arthur glances at the window. Snow has gathered on the ledge outside, obscuring the lowest row of panes.

  ‘Make do with an extra blanket. There’s no sense in wasting coal while there’s a fire burning in the parlour. Join me there when you’ve had enough rest.’

  I glare at his back as he walks away, wondering how long it will take to leave this frosty, loveless marriage.

  Chapter 14

  One can always rely on a royal wedding to lift the spirits of the nation. Princess Charlotte is to marry her prince today, and their happy union is being celebrated across the country. Even Arthur is in a cheerful mood.

  An atmosphere of excitement bubbles in Beckey’s music room. Three ladies settle in a corner to practise an ensemble with harp, violin and cello, while I join a sizeable group of women to rehearse a choral song that we have practised countless times in recent days. Samuel and his two brothers are expected to arrive soon to add their tenor and baritone voices. Beckey flits about the room, checking us over, ensuring not a hair is out of place nor a dress soiled.

  There’s a fluttering inside my chest and it takes great effort to control my breathing, but I refuse to allow my nerves to get the better of me. How fortunate I am to have Beckey as a neighbour and the greatest of friends. She has offered me kindness, educated me about true suffering, given me the gift of music and song, and now opened a door to an opportunity of a lifetime. My life is so much richer for knowing Beckey. My heart swells with love for her, and that’s all I need to overcome any small anxiety I may have about my voice remaining confident and in tune.

  The door opens and Beckey calls for silence. We gravitate to the edges of the room and turn our expectant attention towards her.

  ‘Dear friends,’ she says, ‘today is a merry day. With the Prince Regent’s permission, his daughter, Princess Charlotte, will wed Prince Leopold. And what a fine day for a wedding! Twenty-five years ago today, I wed a prince of my own – my dear husband, Samuel.’ She gestures towards the door as Samuel strides into the music room, flanked by his young
er brothers. ‘In honour of our anniversary, I made an unusual request of my cook. She has made a bride cake for us to share.’

  The cook enters the room to hearty applause, carrying a large iced cake on a glass plate. She sets it on a table and retreats from the room. Samuel follows her out, and returns with a trolley clinking with champagne bottles and glasses.

  ‘Let us raise a toast to Princess Charlotte,’ he says, ‘followed by a second toast to Beckey, my dear wife. She has shown unwavering faith and devotion towards me over the years and I want her to know how much I appreciate her.’

  The gesture brings a tear to my eye. Arthur has never said kind words about me.

  ‘But you’re not to drink too much,’ laughs Beckey. ‘Keep your wits about you and don’t spoil your voices.’

  Samuel pours champagne while his brothers hand out heavy crystal flutes two-thirds filled. We raise our glasses to the imminent royal newlyweds, with a louder toast for our beloved friends. It is my first experience of champagne and oh, how I love it! The aroma is divine, and bubbles tingle in my mouth, releasing hints of apricot and honey.

  The bride cake is a delight to behold with pure white icing and tiny sugar-paste rosebuds around the edge. Beckey cuts the cake into small slices, and we take turns to help ourselves to a piece. I take a bite and close my eyes, relishing the cocktail of flavours – plump juicy fruits, brandy and spice.

  Beckey claps her hands. ‘Come now, ladies. A last run through everything before we leave.’

  We take our places in a neat semi-circle, the musicians off to one side. Following Beckey’s lead, the rehearsal runs from beginning to end without a hitch.

  ‘Well done, everyone, that was perfect. Our transportation’s ready, so let us depart.’

  We file out of the music room with a hum of excited chatter. As I step outside, I catch my breath. We live in a respectable neighbourhood, but never have I seen such elegant coaches and carriages lined up along the side of the street.

  A footman helps me into a massive town coach and three other ladies join me. I’m dying to say something about how luxurious it is, and so befitting of the occasion, but I don’t wish to embarrass myself. For all I know, my companions always travel in such style and assume I do too. Arthur is standing at our parlour window. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  I’m fizzing with excitement as the coach lurches forward. The horses pick up their pace to a slow trot and their metal shoes clatter over cobbles in a mesmerising rhythm. We fall silent inside the carriage, each one of us lost in our thoughts.

  The horses slow to a walk.

  My neighbour leans forward to peer through the window. ‘Oh, my!’

  An enormous crowd has gathered in Pall Mall. I have never seen so many people gathered in one place. Men, women and children cheer as we pass, no doubt assuming we are something to do with the royals. We smile and wave back, enjoying every moment until we trundle into the courtyard of Carlton House, home of the Prince Regent. A footman lowers the steps so we may disembark. I step into the sunshine, in awe of my surroundings. A grand portico looms in front of me, the high roof supported by tall columns. We wait until we’re all assembled and then file through the entrance into the Grand Hall. The hall takes my breath away. An ornate high ceiling floats above archways supported by marble pillars, and statues stand in arched recesses presiding over activities on the white and black tiled floor. I pinch my arm to remind myself this moment is real and I’m standing inside a royal palace.

  A footman informs us the Prince Regent is dining with guests and instructs us to keep our noise to a minimum. We follow him along a corridor, down two small flights of stairs and into a large storeroom where chairs are set out for us. I’m disappointed by this turn of events, for I would very much have liked to watch the comings and goings through the Grand Hall of the palace. The footman says we must stay hidden in this room for two hours, before he will return to escort us to our performance location. Two hours! How will we pass the time?

  I needn’t have worried. The minutes soon pass. We share stories of our own wedding days and try to guess the style of Princess Charlotte’s dress. We stand and sing to the distant music of ‘God Save The King’ and then hurry back to the Grand Hall. During our absence, the hall has become congested with royal attendants in state costumes, and every wall is aglow with hundreds of candles. We arrange ourselves in our practised semi-circle and wait for our cue to sing. A butler gives a discreet wave to Beckey, then she leads us into our medley of songs, accompanied by our talented musicians.

  Thank goodness Beckey insisted on so many rehearsals. While my eyes follow members of the royal family passing by, the song floats from my lips. The atmosphere lifts when the Prince of Saxe-Coburg approaches in full British uniform, and he pauses to listen, nodding his approval of our performance. His sword and belt are peppered with diamonds and coloured gemstones which twinkle in the light, adding a hint of magic to the occasion.

  Beckey gives the signal to begin our grand finale. Our voices meld like a choir of angels and we sing ‘Ave Maria’ in perfect pitch. Then we see her, the bride, emerging from an anteroom, leaning on the arm of her uncle, the Duke of Clarence. I have not seen many brides, and my wedding was a simple affair, but I know Princess Charlotte is the loveliest bride I will ever see. Her dress is exquisite – a fine silk net laid over a delicate silver slip, embroidered at the bottom with flowers and shells, and trimmed on the sleeves with fine lace. The manteau glistens with silver laid over white silk, the edging trimmed to match the dress. She wears a crown of glittering diamond rosebuds, and large diamonds sparkle from her earlobes and around her neck. The silver threads of her dress catch the candlelight, shimmering as she walks. It’s like watching a fairy-tale princess.

  Our performance finishes and the doors close behind the bridal party. While the marriage service takes place, we prepare to leave.

  Beckey bustles towards me. ‘Susan, Mrs Ashbrook offered to take us home.’ She links her arm through mine, and we step outside into the courtyard where we board our coach and wait for the ceremony to finish before we’re allowed to leave.

  A gunfire salute from nearby St James’s Park announces the end of the formal ceremony. A footman signals to the coachman of the front carriage, and we begin a slow rumble across the courtyard.

  The gentle sway of the carriage sends Mrs Ashbrook to sleep. Her head tips forward and she snores softly. I gaze through the window and watch trees slip by, wishing the magic of the day could have continued a little longer.

  ‘Susan? What is it?’ Beckey’s voice is gentle.

  I shift on the seat and turn to face Beckey.

  Her brow puckers, and her smile fades. ‘Susan?’

  I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head, desperate to keep a torrent of tears at bay. I glance at Mrs Ashbrook. Still asleep. By the time I turn my gaze to Beckey, my cheeks are soaked.

  Beckey pats my forearm. ‘My dear, tell me what troubles you. Perhaps I can help?’

  ‘Arthur.’ It’s a struggle to say his name. ‘I can’t bear to be around him any more.’

  ‘I sensed something might be wrong between the two of you. Is he really so bad?’

  I clench my lips in a thin line and nod.

  Beckey sighs. ‘It’s common for a husband and wife to have periods when the relationship is difficult. Samuel and I went through something similar many years ago.’

  I want to tell her more, confide in her, but fear it will fracture our friendship if I say too much. As my husband, Arthur may treat me as he pleases, and it would be inappropriate to discuss intimate details with Beckey. I wipe away tears with the back of my hand and return my attention to the passing view.

  Beckey grasps my hand in hers and gives it a reassuring squeeze. ‘It’s a phase, Susan, nothing more, and it will pass. Have patience and keep working at it. Do whatever it takes to keep Arthur happy, and he’ll treat you well. Every marriage demands tolerance and compromise, including my own. I’m sure Arthur cares deep
ly for you, beneath that haughty exterior of his.’

  I’m sure he does not. How I envy Beckey, returning home to a man she loves.

  Chapter 15

  A lemon drop snags against the inner surface of my cheek, ripping the delicate flesh. The metallic taste of blood mixes with the sharp acidic tang of the sweet. Irritated, I crunch the drop into tiny shards, then curse myself for doing so. Fragments stick to the surfaces of my teeth and I don’t want to be seen picking at them with my fingernails.

  Shadows fall across the street as a thick mass of grey cloud swallows the autumn sun. I quicken my pace and hurry to Paternoster Row, bursting through the door to my favourite bookshop before the first heavy drops of water strike the filthy cobbles.

  ‘Good day, Mrs Thistlewood.’ Dear old Mr Brown emerges from behind the counter. ‘Your arrival is well-timed because we’re about to have yet another heavy downpour.’

  Seconds later, his prediction comes true. Rain splatters against the window, running down the glass panes in thick rivulets. A gentleman, encumbered by a large, heavy umbrella, barges into the shop. Mr Brown takes the dripping umbrella and props it beside the door, creating a small puddle. The gentleman doffs his hat to acknowledge my presence.

  ‘Mr Westcott, I didn’t expect to see you this week.’

  The gentleman unbuttons his frock coat. It gapes open, revealing a set of handcuffs dangling from his waistcoat.

  ‘An investigation brought me to the neighbourhood, Mr Brown. Thought I’d call in on the off-chance before reporting back to Bow Street.’